box of Jack

My head hurts and I’m tired. And I want to snap at everyone. My shoulders feel weak, my eyes are blurry, my face itches with a mild sunburn and I have just no energy. I’m all bitchy and whiny and here am at work and the boss is all, “Are you doing the stuff that you said you’d do? Because you said you’d do it.” Of course, I haven’t done that stuff because I’m at that point in the project where I am just SO OVER IT and why can’t you give me something new and sweet to work on.

Of course, it’s just post-vacation blues. I’m back from Las Vegas. Vegas, baby. Vegas. I was meant to post this yesterday but I lost my writing mojo halfway through and I went to Starbucks instead. Just another way in which I am thoroughly Americanized.

Poolside at The Palazzo

Friday night, I skipped out of work an hour early. Everything was already packed, we rushed to the airport expecting to have to beat some sort of Friday night rush. Turns out, there was not much of a rush but there was hard rain which delayed our flight by an hour. Sounds horrible but it was perfect because we hit a wine bar instead and sampled some playful Argentinian wines and ate a fancy play on Mac & Cheese. (Note: The word “playful” is used ironically here, I don’t know anything about wine except that it has the power to transform the geek chic into the unbearably pretentious.)

Here’s a tip: don’t take the shuttle from the airport to the Strip if you’re already late. We hopped on, sharing the small bus with 6 other people and witnessed the worst of the Strip traffic. Also, our driver did not know where our hotel was. She tried to drop us off at the loading dock to the hotel which smelt like rotting fish. Eventually we made it to The Palazzo and our room was stunning and classy but modern. A sitting area with cushy couches and a TV, two queen beds with another TV and a big ass bathroom with another damn TV. From now, every time I reserve a hotel room in Vegas, I will ask how many TVs are in it.

We were tired but it was Friday night and it’d be an absolute cop-out to go to bed. We ate a quick greasy dinner and then it was time for a decision, dance club or strip club! I thought quietly to myself and realized I did not want to stand around for hours begging to get into a dance club. I’ve never been to a strip club but I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a line to get in. Plus, it’s the kind of place that encourages you to sit the fuck down. So it was suggested we go to Olympic Garden. My ears perked up, only because I remember a long time ago I read an article about getting around Vegas and OG was glowingly endorsed.

I’ll wrap up my post here because it’s getting wordy. The rest will follow. As a parting note, here is a conversation we had in the strip club that get me a heart attack:

R has walked away from our group to the stage. He’s got a fistful of singles and is utterly entranced by the leggy blonde in 8-inch platform stilettos.

M: Haha! R looks so funny!
F: Quick! Someone take a photo!
JACK (THINKING TO HIMSELF): Oh holy shit they’re going to pull out a camera in a strip club and we’re going to have bouncers kick our asses to the curb for trying to sneak a photo of their girls.